A collection of things I'll probably never write
by Unruly Marmite
Summary: Looking through my laptop, I found a collection of half-started works that I'll probably never work on again. Still, I thought I'd share them.
1. Villainy has its moments

**So since it used to be a thing- still is I guess- to put up a load of half-worked stuff in a little folder, I thought I'd do the same when I found all these yesterday. I don't intend to work on them, but if anyone thinks they have potential take the idea and good luck.**

**This one is Worm/DC, specifically Injustice or Injustice 2**

* * *

"Of all people to be caught in this shit with, why did it have to be him?" Slade lamented, reloading his pistol. Bane chuckled deeply, the massive supervillain standing just a fraction in front of the mercenary.

"I suppose it is our bad fortune. Besides, there are worse people to be stuck with. Him we can defeat."

"Who could be worse?" Slade demanded, glaring one-eyed at the shadows around him.

"Darkseid. Brainiac. Doomsday."

"Well…shit, alright. But whatever this is, wherever we are, we have to keep him under control. Crane! You have any idea what's going on?"

The man in the labcoat and cloth mask looked up.

"Hmm. Well, all things considered, I think we've ended up somewhere very odd. Perhaps…some sort of multidimensional mishap? That sounds correct. And unless I'm mistaken, we might not be alive any more. Some kind of psychic shadow, I suppose you could call us."

"That…that means nothing to me, Crane. Speak English." Slade snapped. Scarecrow sighed, in a gentle manner that made Slade want to put a bullet in him.

"I think we've been turned into some kind of psychic ghosts and dumped in the mind of some human somewhere. It's just a theory, but I think it's correct. At least, that's what came to mind. Clearly I got some kind of knowledge during the transfer."

Normally, Slade would have called bullshit and walked away, but in this case he was worried that Scarecrow might be right. And even if he wasn't, there was no harm in sticking with Bane and Scarecrow for the moment.

"Incidentally, I think our host is having some kind of breakdown. If Joker gets to her mental representation first, he might be able to take total control."

"Oh, _fuck."_

Slade vaulted Bane and got moving at a sprint, hearing the booming footsteps of the massive man begin behind him. He hoped Scarecrow was following as well, but honestly it didn't matter. If he and Bane couldn't handle Joker Scarecrow wouldn't be able to. Joker would turn Crane inside out and wear him like a hat.

"Hmm," Slade heard from just ahead, "I wonder what happens if I-"

Slade threw himself into a flying kick as soon as he was close enough. His boot caught Joker in his ghastly pale face, and hurled the clown away from the thin figure that was curled into a shivering ball at the clown's feet. An instant later Bane rushed past, and a massive fist hammered Joker into- and through- one of the pale grey brick walls that seemed to compose the labyrinth of this place. Slade grinned behind his mask as the dust cleared and showed the Joker crumpled in the smashed wall. And then a gloved hand adjusted the suit, and a soft giggle left the sprawled clown.

"Bullshit." Slade said flatly, as the Joker stood.

"Why, thank you Bane. I've been needing the crick in my back worked out for hours." The Joker said, before breaking into giggles. Slade shot him, putting bullets into the torso until his gun ran empty and the Joker collapsed again. And then…and then, the clown _stood back up._

"What." Bane said, voicing the exact thought that Slade had. The Joker gave that hideous grin of his, and produced a knife from his sleeve.

"Naughty naughty," he sing-songed, and Slade drew his sword.

"I'm going to cut his arms off." He informed Bane calmly. Joker started to laugh, and Slade sensed something behind him. Something big, and he moved on instinct snapping to one side to stand in front of the collapsed girl while keeping an eye on both Joker and the new presence. Not easy with only one eye, but he persevered.

"Why, Deathstroke. Anyone would think you were _afraid." _Rasped the monster from behind him. Slade gritted his teeth, glaring at the thing that called itself Scarebeast. He still wasn't sure how Crane did it, but he was fairly certain that if he cut it open it would bleed. Scarebeast chuckled, slowly swinging the chain and hook it- he- held.

"I thought you were going to take Joker apart, Deathstroke? What are you waiting for?"

"You to shut up." Slade responded, before dashing across the open space and rushing Joker. The clown was faster than most people expected, and tougher: he regularly faced down Batman, after all. But a bowie knife was not a match for the sword Slade used, and Joker's skills were not equal to Slade's. Slade drove the clown back, slicing across an arm to make Joker drop his knife before shoving the clown into a wall and pinning him there with the sword. Slade didn't end there, drawing a pistol with his off hand and jamming it under Joker's chin before pulling the trigger until the gun clicked empty.

"There." Slade snapped, turning back to Bane and Scarebeast. "Are you happy now?"

"Ah…"

Bane silently pointed, and Slade turned around as the Joker looked up, his shattered skull slowly growing back.

"Oh." Slade noted. He stepped out of stabbing range and rubbed at his forehead tiredly.

"Crane. What's happening." He asked, too annoyed to put any inflection in his tone. Scarebeast wandered closer.

"Well…I'd say that we can't really hurt each other. Because we're ghosts, if you like, we'll just keep regenerating."

"Oh. Wonderful. Stuck with the clown for eternity." Slade grumbled. Happily, most of the Joker's jaw was still missing from the gunfire, so the clown couldn't talk.

"Maybe not. The mind is a complex thing, and I've never experienced something like this before. Maybe we can seal him away somewhere, in with this girl's darkest memories." Scarebeast said, with indecent relish. Bane glanced at Scarebeast, then looked at Joker.

"He'll probably enjoy it." The massive man rumbled. Slade shrugged.

"If it gets him away from us I'm happy with it." He said, turning as his heightened senses picked up a soft groan. A girlish groan. Their host- assuming that Crane was correct about where they were- must be waking up. Slade was, admittedly, a bit of a bastard, but he wasn't entirely a bad person, so he walked across to check that the girl was ok. Slade walked across, reaching down a gloved hand to take the girl's arm and pull her up. His fingers reached down, and as soon as he touched her a sharp pain flashed through his mind and he staggered back.

"What?"

The girl lurched to her feet, in a clumsy rendition of something he might have done, and Slade cursed again. The hell was that?

"Oh. Fascinating. It appears that physical contact has transferred some of your skills to her, Deathstroke." Scarebeast noted, walking across. Slade closed his eye and resisted the urge to murder Crane. Now that the madman had pointed it out, Slade could see it. His skills, ruined by different body shape and fitness levels. Well, better him than Crane or Joker he supposed.

"What…what…oh my God." The girl started, blinking and swaying. Slade stepped forward and caught her arm, keeping he standing out of reflex. It wasn't as though anything else could happen.

"What do you remember? What is happening? Who are you?" Scarebeast stressed, closing in. Slade snapped out an arm, blocking the big creature. Bane was still eyeing Joker, who had gone eerily quiet.

"I'm…I'm Taylor. Taylor. I think. Not…not any of you."

"Do you know me?" Scarecrow asked, intently. The girl blinked.

"Deathstroke. Scarecrow. Bane. Joker. You're villains."

Slade cleared his throat.

"And a mercenary. But…but not from my world. I've never heard of you. How…how do I know this?"

"Hmm…some sort of memory transfer, maybe? How curious." Scarecrow mused. If Slade were to be honest, he found it more disturbing than normal Scarecrow, the hulking abomination that Crane had become still talking in the gentle tone the doctor preferred. The girl didn't seem all that phased.

"Where is here? I was…I was thrown into my locker. It was filled with…stuff. Horrible stuff. I think I passed out, and then I woke up here." Taylor said. Scarecrow rubbed his chin- he was starting to shrink slightly, Slade noticed, the chemicals that turned him into this larger form beginning to recede.

"Some sort of mental construct, I believe. Maybe so that you can meet us…"

Scarecrow suddenly moved, swinging an arm at the girl. She moved, apparently on instinct, blocking with ease. Slade let her go, ramming an elbow into Scarecrow's ribs and kicking him several metres away.

"What the hell are you doing, Crane?" he demanded. Scarecrow chuckled.

"Oh, just testing. Testing, Deathstroke. Assuming that we are the same here as we would be in reality…that girl isn't normal. She's almost as strong as you are. How does your super serum work, incidentally?"

Slade paused. His super serum. The serum that made him legitimately superhuman, even if it wasn't all that extreme. The girl apparently had it as well. Which meant…which meant that his abilities that had transferred to her included the serum. That was bullshit. It was ridiculous. It was actually pretty useful. If the girl was going to be his successor- as she would be if he had any say in it- then the serum would be invaluable to her.

"I…I've got the abilities of a group of villains and one amoral mercenary. I've got said villains living in my head. This can't be good." Taylor said. Over in the corner Bane finished gagging the Joker with a chunk of the clowns own purple suit and looked across.

"At least there is no Batman here to prevent your rise to power." He offered. The girl looked at him blankly and then shrugged.

"Y'know, I always thought I'd be a hero." She admitted. Slade chuckled.

"You can still help people if you want, kid. But being a villain is a lot more fun."

"I…yeah. I guess. So, how do I wake up?" she asked. Slade and Bane looked at Scarecrow, who shrugged.

"Want it, maybe? Who knows."

"Great."

When Taylor opened her eyes again she was greeted with the awful darkness of the locker. It was dark and slimy and smelled awful, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to care about it. The memories she had from her new head-guests were fuzzy and vague, but they were enough to prevent her from panicking. Her personality seemed to have changed as well. That was interesting. Something for later, after she had escaped this little personal hell. Taylor twisted, bracing herself and using the enhanced strength she got from Deathstroke to pop the locker door open. She stepped out, already feeling better, and glad that she had been in there long enough that the school was empty. Breaking down the door and punching Emma's spleen out might send the wrong message. She heard snickering in the back of her mind, but decided to ignore it for the moment. Deathstroke, Scarecrow and Bane would be fine, and if the Joker had gotten loose…well, if she had the sudden urge to commit mass murder she'd know that the Joker was having an influence.

_"It's good that you're so aware." _Scarecrow said, and she twitched a little.

"Still there then." She noted.

"_Still here, kid. Shouldn't you be getting home?" _Deathstroke- Slade- added. It was kind of hilarious that he was the closest thing to moral of the voices in her head, when he was a paid killer. Ah well. Being a hero was probably overrated. Strangely enough, Slade was also the 'ghost' that she was getting the most out of, since he was the only member of the four who was actually superhuman. Scarecrow and Bane both used chemicals, and Joker was…Joker was just insane. Taylor remained lost in thought as she made her way through the dark streets of the city, annoyed at the thought of having to walk all the way home. It was inconvenient. And dangerous, especially for-

"_Anyone who runs into you?"_

'Yes.' She mentally agreed, striding along. She was still covered in filth, but it didn't really seem important anymore. The enhanced healing that Slade's powers included had already dealt with her cuts and bruises, and she was adjusting to the increased strength, speed and reflexes as she moved along. She tried to stay to the roads, away from the alleys, there was no point in taking risks, but it would be much faster to…well, life was for living and so long as she didn't run into a villain gang cape she'd be fine.

"_Murphy's Law, kid."_

And then, almost as though Deathstroke had timed it, a ragged man stepped out of the shadows to block her path.

'Thanks, Slade.'

"'Ello, darling." The man said, leering at Taylor with a mouth full of rotten teeth. Taylor schooled her expression to polite, vacant surprise even as her mind listed ways to cause massive injury to the man. Thank you, supervillain knowledge. Admittedly most of Bane's methods would require her to be half a foot taller and considerably more muscular, but Slade's would work. The man in front was still smiling, and there was someone behind her. One more to her right. Three on one. Bad odds for them. The man ahead of her opened his mouth again, and she hit him in the throat. A straight punch that left him gagging, and then she snapped her arm back to elbow the man behind her. Half a turn and her foot cracked into a knee. The man behind her collapsed, and she dropped to one knee to avoid a swinging fist from the man she had punched in the throat. A savage elbow to the groin would probably have taken him out of the fight, but she smacked his head into a wall for good measure. The last man rushed her with a switchblade. He was thin, emaciated, and she would probably have been stronger than him even without Slade's strength. Taylor caught his wrist, punched him just below the ribs, whipped the knife from his hand. She adjusted her grip to his shoulder and methodically drove the slender blade into his torso. One, two, three, four and the body collapsed.

"Hmm. Shouldn't I be more disturbed by this?" Taylor mused, as she walked towards the one man still conscious. He was trying to run, but his shattered knee was clearly hobbling him and she caught him before he managed three steps. Taylor slammed him into the wall, idly flipping the knife in her hand so that she was holding it in a reverse grip.

"_You'll get blood everywhere." _Slade said quietly. Taylor paused.

"Hmm. That's true…I don't want to ruin my clothes." She murmured. The man- a member of the Merchant gang, she thought- looked terrified, so she stunned him with a rap of the knife butt and spun him around. A smooth thrust of the knife into the base of his skull, and another body made a boneless slide to the ground. The last man was still unconscious, so repeating the method of killing was easy enough. Taylor went through their pockets, collected anything that might be useful to her and walked away, whistling softly to herself.

It was a long walk, but she had no more trouble on the way. To be truthful, she was glad of both things. It gave her time to think, to consider what she had just done. Murder. Triple murder, in fact. When did it become mass murder?

"_Above three in one go, I think." _Slade offered.

'Oh. Not a mass murderer yet then. Why don't I feel anything?' Taylor thought back. There was a long pause, and eventually Scarecrow spoke.

_"Considering that you've taken on significant parts of our personalities…"_

'I've become a psychopath. Wonderful.' She thought, cutting off Scarecrow before he could start talking again. At least this would make being a villain easier…assuming she could keep herself under control. Killing those Merchants…the first one had been enjoyable. She'd liked it. That wasn't normal.

_"Don't worry about it. So long as you're in control it doesn't matter." _Came the distinctive accent of Bane, and Taylor nodded her head absently. He was right. So long as she could control herself it would be fine. And even then…so long as she channelled it right, well, who was going to miss some anonymous gang members?

"_That's the spirit." _Slade encouraged as she sped up, walking briskly along. There was, after all, no rest for the wicked.

It was nice to be clean again, Taylor mused. She had gotten home without incident, creeping in and washing. She had told her father that she had been locked in her locker, but that it was just a prank and she had been able to escape. He had been worried and angry, but she had managed to placate him. He wouldn't be able to do anything anyway. She could break her tormentors on her own.

'So,' she thought, directing her mind to her new residents, 'Now that I have powers what do I do with them?'

_"What do you want to do with them?" _Bane questioned.

'I want…I don't know what I want. I wanted to be a hero. But now, now I don't know anymore. I want to help people, but I want to be…I want to be rich, I want to stop having to be afraid, I want to stop struggling for the little things, I want to have power. I think I might have taken quite a lot from your personalities.' Taylor admitted. There were small noises of agreement from the visitors in her mind, and then Slade spoke.

_"Kid…this world, it's a pretty nasty place. I mean, I thought Gotham was bad, but this is close to it. Thing is, being a hero is a great idea, but you don't need to be a hero to help people."_

_"You aren't making a lot of sense, Deathstroke." _Bane noted. A quiet laugh came from Deathstroke.

_"Aren't I? The gangs in this city- I know there are gangs, I can tell that much- how much do you think they'll pay to have rivals killed? How much money will they have squirrelled away? And how much can you help by eliminating the worst and the most competent of them?"_

'Oh my. That is an idea.' Taylor thought, darkly amused. She might not be able to take on the bigger fish with her skills- at least, not until she had Bane's Venom and Scarecrow's fear toxin available- but the Merchants? The Empire Eighty-Eight capes? Fair play. Fair prey. And besides, killing Nazis was practically a public service. Getting paid for it would be a delicious bonus.

_"Get in shape first, and get equipped." _Slade advised. "_Then we can go out and have some fun."_

**Chapter 2**

Slade hadn't been wrong. This was pretty fun.

Taylor swerved to one side, avoiding a swinging crowbar, and laid out the Merchant holding it with a single punch. The man went flat, and Taylor looked at his friends with a predatory grin that was, unfortunately, hidden by her scarf and mask. There were only two of them still standing: one was brandishing a baseball bat and the other had a set of brass knuckles. It was kind of cute, actually, especially considering that a good seven other Merchants were laid out in various states of injury.

"You know," she said conversationally, consciously altering her accent to sound almost Australian, "Nobody would judge you if you ran away."

A pause.

"Well, I wouldn't judge you. But I'm just here for your stuff."

The Merchants moved forward. Taylor got the tip of her boot under the dropped crowbar, flicking it into the air and snatching it in a gloved hand. She converted the motion into a swing that hammered into the jaw of the man with brass knuckles and knocked him sprawling. A duck carried her out of the way of the baseball bat, a casual backswing of the crowbar smacking into a knee and dropping the Merchant so that his head was bowed. Almost like an execution, she mused as she struck again, leaving another man unconscious. Or dead, maybe. She didn't really want him dead, but she wouldn't shed any tears if he was. Taylor frowned, dropping the crowbar. Her fighting style was far too similar to Joker, in her opinion, but it was needed. She didn't have the bulk for a lot of Bane's moves, and she didn't have a sword or gun- or staff- for Deathstroke's style. The Joker was good with a crowbar and knives, for all of his insanity. It didn't matter. Once she got hold of a gun she would move away from anything linking her to the clown. Whatever. There was stuff to loot. Hopefully this little Merchant drug den would have stuff worth taking, and not just a load of crap.

"Not bad." Taylor admitted to herself as she loaded a bag with money. There was only one gun in the building- the Merchants were apparently such a shit gang that barely any of them had anything other than a melee weapon- and it was in poor condition, but it was there. And there was money, and a load of drugs that she didn't intend to take. Maybe she could fire the house on her way out, although that would burn to death the unconscious Merchants and so was not the nicest thing. Decisions were hard.

"Is basic gun maintenance not a thing here?" she mumbled, looking at the handgun before deciding to drop it in the bag with the money. Shooting it would almost certainly be a terrible idea, before it was cleaned and checked anyway. Something for later. And then there was a roar, and the building shook, and Taylor dived out the window. A second story window, she realised an instant later, and made a hasty grab at a fire escape on the next building over. That was convenient, she admitted as she scrambled up to the building roof to see just what the hell was going on.

"Huh. Big scary monsters." She observed, looking down at the chaos. The big silver thing that looked like a cross between a dragon and a man was in the centre: she guessed that that was Lung, the Parahuman leader of the ABB gang. Since his power could be summed up as 'Rage Dragon' she felt safe in that assumption. The monsters charging at him looked more like…like disgusting skinless lizard-tigers. That was an awful description, but the best she could give at the moment. Oh, and there were some people running around. A few ABB by the look of it, but a couple in costumes of varying garishness. So parahumans. Fighting Lung. Well, suicide was apparently still popular in Brockton Bay. Taylor shrugged.

"Not my fight I gue-"

There was a tiny noise from behind her, and she dived away on principle. It was a good choice, because some bastard in a demon mask had just tried to backstab her.

"That isn't very nice." She chided, letting her bag drop to the ground and sizing her opponent up. He had a bandoleer of grenades. It was a nice bandoleer, and she could do with some explosives. The guy in the mask- demon guy- said nothing, which was a bit disappointing. What was the point of cape fighting if there was no banter? And then the demon dickhead crumbled into ash and she had to move because there was another one behind her and he crumbled into ash and there was another one and she was really getting sick of it.

"Bugger off!" she snapped, aggravated. Teleporters were _bullshit._ Fortunately, this one didn't seem all that smart, and she was able to catch him with a sharp elbow the next time he appeared behind her. And he immediately crumbled into ash. _For fucks sake. _And now there were three of him. Great.

"Are you sure you want to do this? We've only just met." Taylor said, ducking and dodging and utilising most of her enhanced speed and reflexes to avoid the clones that were swarming her. The demon mask guy wasn't bad with a knife, actually, and Taylor was forced to pull a blade of her own to hold him off. He was still cloning himself, she reckoned, using attrition to wear her down. It wasn't a bad plan, but she just needed to work out which one was actually…there! A snap of her off hand and a slender knife hit something that wasn't a clone. He staggered, and Taylor crossed the space between them faster than he could blink, jamming a knife into his side and slamming a fist into his jaw. The man…Oni Lee, that was his name. Oni Lee went down in a heap. Taylor grinned behind her mask.

"Got cocky, eh? Look where that gets you." She taunted, idly dodging one last clone and punching it into dust. Taylor retrieved her knives, stole the grenade bandoleer and looked towards the fight that was still raging. On one hand, it wasn't really her business. On the other hand, Oni Lee worked for Lung. Taylor looked at the grenade belt in her hand and shrugged.

"In for a penny." She concluded, taking out a grenade and popping the pin before throwing it. The grenade bounced once, twice, and then exploded, right next to Lung's ankle. Turned out that he wasn't big enough yet, and a sizeable chunk of his leg exploded in a gory shower. The lizard things might have caught some shrapnel as well, but Taylor didn't care all that much. She dragged Oni Lee across to the roof edge, hitting him again as he stirred slightly.

"Lung!" she shouted, drawing attention. With one hand she hoisted Lee up, showing him off.

"Next time, keep your pet on a leash." She called, before shoving Lee off the roof with a boot and locking eyes with Lung as he fell. Ooh. He looked even angrier than before.

"KILL YOU!" he roared- or at least that was what Taylor thought he roared. Hard to tell. Whatever, she got moving, making a jump to another fire escape and sliding down to the ground. There were ABB thugs scattered about the ground, and she snatched a gun from one of them, turning and putting bullets into Lung until the gun was empty. From the gouts of blood and the enraged howling it worked, but he just regenerated.

"No kidding." She murmured, before bolting across the open space that Lung was rampaging around. Sticking to alleys was her best bet, Lung was still growing and would soon be too big to fit. Then all she'd have to do is play keep-away until the Protectorate got here and she could escape. Let the paid heroes deal with the rage dragon. Easier said than done, especially now that he had…he had burst into flames. Well, that was a thing. It might be better to let the lizard things deal with that, while the big guy in black ran around in his cloud and dealt with the ABB thugs remaining. She was going to hide in one of these conveniently empty buildings. It really was the best idea. And then Lung saw her and charged and there was a blonde girl in purple right in front of her, so Taylor grabbed the girl and dragged her along until she dived through a window and into a building. Taylor managed to roll so that she cushioned the fall of the girl in purple, and grinned from the adrenaline. Lung had been distracted by the huge lizard things again, so she had a minute or so.

"Hey there, planner." Taylor said cheerfully. The girl looked at her, looking distinctly frazzled.

"Planner?"

"You are, aren't you? You're the only one not fighting. So, any ideas?"

The girl grinned at her.

"Just a few."

The girl in purple peeked out the window, then grimaced.

"Lung's getting too pumped up. Bullets aren't even going to hurt him pretty soon. Not normal bullets, anyway."

"Oh good. Well, that's me out." Taylor commented, a moment before Lung picked up one of the lizard things and threw it at the building they were in. More specifically, at the window the blonde girl was looking out of. Taylor dived at her, grabbing her and pulling them both out of the way. They landed in a tangled heap as the lizard thing crashed through the window and wall, ending itself in a slowly stirring heap.

"You're making quite a habit of saving me." The blonde girl mumbled dazedly.

"Don't read too much into it. I'm just too nice." Taylor whispered in her ear before disentangling herself and standing.

'Slade. Lung's too strong, any ideas?'

"_Hmm…well, he's regenerating a lot. Does that regeneration include chemicals?"_

'Good question. Let's find out.'

"Planner! Lung's regeneration, how would it work on drugs?"

The blonde girl took a long look at Lung and then shrugged.

"It still works pretty fast. But nothing like it does physically. Wait. Drugs. You have some sedatives? No. Not sedatives…drugs? Actual drugs?"

"Not on me, but-"

"In the drug den you were raiding. Right. Let's go there, quickly."

'That's disconcerting.' Taylor mentally noted.

_"Yeah, no kidding. At least she's baseline human physically by the look of it."_

Taylor quickly led the way back to the drug den, and looked around the room of still unconscious Merchants.

"Oh. Wow, you aren't bad at this. Oh, I'm Tattletale, by the way."

Taylor paused long enough to briefly shake the girl's hand.

"I'm…uh, haven't got a name yet, but you can call be Amalgam."

"Amalgam, huh? Very non-descriptive." Tattletale smiled, and Taylor shrugged.

"Works for me. So, how much and what drug?"

"What drug…some kind of…heroin, maybe. If we jam a load of heroin into him, that should at least slow him down."

"Right. Sounds good. Only..."

"He's on fire and massive. Yeah."

"I don't suppose any of your friends out there are fireproof and tough enough to not die?" Taylor tried hopefully. Tattletale gave her a bright smile. Taylor sighed.

"Yeah, I figured that. I wish I had a crossbow or something. Like a rocket launcher. That might work, right?" she continued as they hastily collected what they needed. Taylor was going to have to inject almost a dozen syringes into Lung. This idea was looking worse and worse by the minute.

"At this point? A rocket launcher is a maybe." Tattletale said, sounding slightly amused. Taylor frowned behind her mask. It was ok for her, she wasn't going to have to try and rodeo a rage dragon. Actually, now that she put it that way it sounded kinda fun.

"Right," she said, taking the bundle of syringes carefully. "I'm going to have to hit Lung with as many grenades as possible, hopefully that'll expose flesh enough for me to inject him. You need to get your friends out of the way before the explosions. Thing you can do that?"

Tattletale had stopped smiling, and looked a little grim.

"Yeah. I think so. Good luck."

Taylor glanced at the other girl.

"I won't need it." She said automatically, before ducking back out of the drug den and adjusting the grenade bandoleer on her shoulder. This was such a stupid, crazy, awesome thing to do. Taylor moved quickly as the lizard things retreated into a billowing cloud of black, pulling the pins on grenades and throwing them as fast as possible. One, two, three four grenades, and she cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Lung!"

The silvery, blazing monster turned to look at her, and she gestured to his feet a moment before the grenades went off. Bone and blood and scraps of dark red flesh and silvery scales flew, and Lung howled and roared as he fell. Taylor moved, sprinting forward, knowing that she would have to be quick, before the corona of fire could catch onto her clothes and ignite. Her healing factor wasn't _that _good. Lung roared incoherently and swiped a massive arm at her, and she jumped, bouncing off the arm and vaulting the gang leader. She landed behind him, plunging the bundle of syringes into his back and pushing the plungers in. Lung roared again, twisting and threshing, and Taylor jumped into his swing, meeting it with her boots and using the force to launch her away from him, back flipping in mid-air and landing in a crouch.

"Damn." She murmured, impressed with herself.

_"Pretty good, kid." _Slade complimented. Lung was roaring and snarling, but his regeneration seemed to have slowed and he seemed to be shrinking.

"Must be the drugs and the lack of fighting. His regen is focusing on the drugs maybe?"

_"Research said that he amps up in battle as well. Nobody's fighting him now, maybe he ramps down really quickly?"_

Lung seemed disoriented, staggering and swaying, and Taylor was able to quickly skirt the area and find Tattletale again. On the way she swiped a submachine gun from a collapsed thug. Tattletale wasn't alone anymore: her three friends or teammates or whatever were in the house with her.

"Nice work." Tattletale said, grinning at Taylor. Taylor shrugged, brushing some char off her jacket sleeve.

"Do I get extra points for style?"

Tattletale laughed, and Taylor glanced back to check that Lung wasn't in fighting condition. It didn't seem like it, given that he was still staggering around and considerably smaller than before. Still huge compared to a regular human, but smaller.

"So, we going to hang around or are we going to leave?" Taylor asked. The big guy of Tattletale's group- the guy who projected darkness, dressed in motorcycle leathers- nodded. He must be the leader.

"Yeah. Yeah, we probably should. Thanks for the help, uh-"

"Amalgam."

"Amalgam, right. I'm Grue. Like I said, thanks for your help."

"No problem." Taylor replied, tilting her head slightly as she heard the wailing of sirens. Tattletale had changed her expression as well.

"PRT are coming. More than one hero. We should get going, Grue." Tattletale said. She turned slightly and favoured Taylor with a smile- an actual smile, not a grin.

"You should leave too, Amalgam. I guess I'll see you around?"

Taylor shook her head even as she moved across to the doorway.

"Why ask questions you already know the answers to?" she asked rhetorically as she slipped out into the night.

'That was a hell of a first night.'

_"Yeah, no kidding. Still, at least we got away with the money." _Deathstroke offered. Taylor rolled her shoulders, working out the little kinks that had built up.

'There is that. And I managed to make contact with Tattletale and her group. I think they're a fairly new group, I'll have to look them up.'

_"Sounds sensible. And they should know more about ways to earn money."_

'That was my thought. How're things up there, still quiet?'

_"The clown is still suppressed, if that's what you're asking. Don't you have school soon?"_

'Yeah. I should probably get some sleep. Don't want to do anything rash because of sleep deprivation.'

Winslow Academy. School. Hell.

'If I blew this place up during the night, do you think anyone would care?' Taylor wondered. The voices in her mind didn't answer. She supposed that the question didn't really need to be answered. Nobody would care. Not so long as the place was empty.

_"I don't understand why you keep coming here. You really don't need it." _Bane rumbled. Taylor knew that, in theory, he was right. She shared a lot with her mental residents, and intelligence was apparently one of those things: Taylor had always been smart. Bane was a genius, and while she wasn't quite that level she was good enough. Still…

'I can't get a job without qualifications, Bane.'

_"Don't you have a job as a supervillain now?"_

'I…yeah. But I might need something as cover.'

"_This argument seems familiar…" _Deathstroke interrupted. Bane laughed.

_"Because we've had it every day for the past three weeks. At least we know that our host is stubborn."_

'I'll take that as a compliment.' Taylor mentally commented as she walked into the school. The way that Bane laughed made her think that it wasn't. At least Scarecrow had stopped trying to psychoanalyse everything. He might be qualified, but he was also a bloody nuisance. Although his assessment of Sophia had been mildly interesting.

Taylor moved rapidly through the students, automatically cataloguing the people she saw. Gang member. Gang member. Normal student. Gang member. Former best friend Emma. Gang member. Moving quickly made her less obvious. Less easy to pin down, and she didn't use her locker anymore. She just carried everything she needed in her bag. Even so, it wasn't all that easy to avoid them constantly, and Bane's suggestion of violent action followed by leaving forever was growing more and more appealing. Which was, really, something that she should be concerned about.

Computer class was first. Taylor was, all things considered, fairly good at it, and it was a skill that was actually useful. The class itself was finished quickly, and Taylor spent the rest of her time researching the group that she had met last night. The Undersiders, they were called, a fairly small and new villain group. Composed of small time criminal Grue, relative unknowns Tattletale and Regent and the known murderer Bitch- or Hellhound, if you were being PG. They hadn't seemed too bad and hell, Taylor was a murderer at this point. She just hadn't been caught. That done, Taylor turned to looking up Lung, and what happened last night. She soon found a few pieces of information, telling her that Lung had been subdued and taken into custody by Protectorate heroes, with the hero Armsmaster getting most of the credit. Well, he deserved it, if it was true that he'd managed to create a sedative good enough to put Lung down, especially considering that she'd put enough heroin into Lung to kill a man several times over and he'd just been a bit woozy. Idly, Taylor looked for the name she'd given herself, and found it in a message. Taylor looked at it thoughtfully.

Subject: Amalgam

Owe you one. Would like to repay the favour. Meet?

Send a message,

Tt.

_"Now that is interesting. Looks like you made quite the impression."_ Deathstroke offered. Taylor smiled a little.

'Looks like we've got an in.'

Now all she needed was a time and place, but that could wait for later. For now, she had Parahuman Studies to attend, something which was possibly the most wasteful class in the curriculum. She wouldn't object to it as part of other classes, but talking about Parahumans constantly was a waste. Taylor got to the class a little early, walking in just as Madison, one of Emma's little helpers in the campaign against Taylor, bent over to pour orange juice into the seat Taylor preferred. Something white-hot twisted in her chest, and Taylor made a deliberate decision to stumble. She toppled forward, grabbing Madison and subtly driving an elbow into the much smaller girls side. They both fell over, Madison covering herself in juice, and Taylor felt an ugly, glorious satisfaction spread through her chest. Just to add to it, Taylor hastily rolled to her feet and plastered a look of horror on her face.

"Oh no, Madison!" she said, as insincerely as possible. "I'm so sorry, I tripped and you were in the way and I couldn't stop!"

God this was satisfying. Tears were starting to streak down Madison's face: she had hit the chair quite hard, probably bruised her ribs. And, even better, the teacher had just walked in. Mr Gladly was an incompetent and far too eager to be liked, but he had seen the 'accident' and it couldn't be blamed on Taylor. Apart from clumsiness, but that was an insult that was thrown at her regularly. Three cheers for an alibi provided by your enemies.

"Madison! Taylor! Are you alright?" Mr Gladly asked. Sourly, Taylor wondered if he would have been as concerned if it was just her. Madison looked up at the teacher, biting her lip, and Taylor wondered if it was to hold back from showing any pain. Sophia wouldn't like that. Wouldn't like that one bit, considering the obsession over being 'strong' that Sophia had.

"I'm alright, Mr Gladly. But I think Madison might have hurt her ribs, she fell on the chair." Taylor said honestly. Mr Gladly looked worriedly at Madison. Of course he did, she was one of the popular girls.

"Right. Madison, you had better go and see the nurse." He said. Madison nodded slowly and stood, and Taylor wondered if any of the other girls in Madison's clique would offer to go with her. Emma and Sophia stayed silent, but one raised her hand.

"Sir, would you like me to go with Madison, to make sure that she's ok?"

Huh. Looked like there was some honour amongst them after all. Taylor had expected them to completely abandon Madison, but they'd exceeded her expectations. She shrugged minutely and sat, taking a seat near to a window. Usually she took a door seat and tried to leave as soon as possible, but she just wasn't feeling like that today.

The lesson was as boring as she had expected.

Taylor wondered if Sophia and Emma would be waiting for her when she left the classroom. Madison probably wouldn't be. Even if she wasn't that badly hurt it would take her time to clear herself up, especially given that she'd been drenched in orange juice. Still, Madison was the least imposing of the three, and there would still be plenty of flunkies around. The bell rang, and Taylor grimaced.

'Time to bite the bullet.'

"Alright. Let me explain this to you, sweetheart. We- The Undersiders- aren't violent criminals. Not that violent, anyway. There are, say twenty hostages in here. If we were a violent bunch, like, say, the Slaughterhouse, the Protectorate would burst in. Because we'd kill you all for giggles, and saving even one person would be a success. But we don't want to kill anybody. They come fireballing in, we react, people die, well, it doesn't look good. Not on them, not on us, on nobody."

Taylor paused, looking around the subdued hostages and focusing on Panacea.

"Now, you may be thinking that it isn't that bad. That you can save people, because we don't exactly have a lot of firepower. And you'd be right. This gun that I'm waving around? Rubber bullets. Not that dangerous. But this gun-"

Taylor cocked her hip slightly to make it more obvious, and patted the pistol there,

"This gun is loaded with live rounds. And I'm a pretty good shot. So tell me, sweetheart, if I see the Protectorate charging and start shooting, how many people do you think will die, especially if I shoot you first?"

"A lot. But you'll be one of them too." Panacea said defiantly. Taylor laughed, amused and pleased by the defiance shown.

"Maybe. Maybe. But if they stay out there and we leave nice and peaceful, how many people are hurt? Nobody. Bank's insured. We get our money. A bit of therapy will sort the hostages, all good clean fun and over."

"Is that what this is to you? Fun?" Panacea asked, derisively. Taylor cocked her head, thinking.

"Well, yes indeed. Not just fun, darling, it's a job as well. But you know what they say: get a job that you love."

* * *

**Not great, and it was fairly quickly superseded by Empress Ascendant. The general plot was for Taylor to move on to a double life as a Parahuman mercenary willing to work for almost anyone while taking over the Merchants behind the scenes and rebuilding them into a much more competent group, with her eventual aim being to take over the Brockton Bay underworld and, eventually, expand across America and possibly the world.**

**This also shows part of the way I write: I tend to sometimes write bits of story that are far ahead of the main plot and will either be added in or discarded when I reach them, hence the little snippet at the Bank that is far ahead of the rest of the story.**


	2. From Darkling Morn

**Harry Potter, using the 'Harry is summoned to another world' cliche with a slight twist.**

* * *

**From Darkling Morn**

Unspeakables. They were the thing under the bed. The monster in the shadows. All the rumours they never denied, feeding on each other until it was whispered that each Unspeakable was equal to a platoon of Aurors. Fools. Some Unspeakables were capable in battle, but most were just researchers. Archivists. No match for a true magical killer. The Dark Lord smiled in a hollow way as he let the last body slide to the floor and walks across to the loaded shelves. Prophecies. Always Prophecies.

"_The Power he knows not…" _the man breathed, his left hand stretching towards the glass orb almost instinctively. He only had three fingers on that hand now, courtesy of a Cutting Curse almost a year ago. It didn't slow him down. Carefully, he picked up the orb that had shaped his life, and looked at it, almost sadly.

"I wonder if she knew. If he knew. Nothing but hollow words from a broken woman." He whispers softly, before flinging the ball away. He hears it shatter in the distance, but his voice drowns it out.

"_Incendio invidus." _He said quietly, and black stained flames roared into the Hall of Prophecies. He didn't stay to gloat. He had other business to attend to. But he did allow himself the luxury of a laugh as he walks away from the inferno. The laughter rang throughout the Ministry of Magic, an eerie noise and for a moment he wondered if it would give pause to his pursuers. He doubted it. Self-proclaimed Light Wizards and Witches all, they would give their lives in an instant to bring him down. They know what they do is right. He envied them that sometimes. The Hall of the Veil of Death is just as he remembers it. An empty auditorium, silent but for the rustling of cloth in an eldritch breeze and the constant whispering. Whispering, always. He stood in the centre, letting his robes wave lazily in the wind from…Beyond. Whatever lay there, he knew that he would not have to wait much longer to find out.

"He's in here!" a voice shouted, and the first member of the Order of the Phoenix bursts into the room. Red hair is all he sees before he flicks his wand in a lazy spiral and says the fateful words.

"_Sanscaura." _he says softly. A gibberish word, but tied to magic. The Order member loses his footing as the stone steps he is leaping down turn to sand underfoot, before swirling up and engulfing him in a tornado of grit that will strip skin from flesh and flense flesh from bone. A horrid way to die, but the Dark Lord does not care. A scream bubbles from the maelstrom, and a shiver of delight runs up his spine. The Dark Lord smiles, his wand moving in an intricate dance as more Order members charge in. Flaying. Slicing. Burning. Five more Order members die horribly before the whole wall around the entryway caves in, and the true threat to him makes itself known. Three figures become visible in the swirling dust and he snarls, smile dropping.

"_Lancea Corrodis!"_

A narrow jet of acid green burst from his wand, but one of the shadowed figures motions and the spray of acid veers off course, splashing over the steps and causing them to slowly melt away. The Dark Lord whisks his wand around himself, conjuring a translucent golden shield. A bubble before him, and his back to the Veil of Death. A brown haired woman, and two men. One blonde, one redhead. Weasley, Longbottom and Granger. War heroes. Defenders of the Light. He hates them more than anything.

"So you caught me." He says, his voice cracked and weary to his ears. He'll not be escaping this one, he knows, but if he's going to die he'll do so with one final twist of the knife, one final sneer and curse and blow. Do not go gentle into that good night, whisper his innermost thoughts. They look so healthy. Not like him. He's gaunt, he knows, his eyes glittering with an unhealthy light and his face scarred. His left hand is missing two fingers, and his right one. The Dark Lord trapped, about to see his reign end.

"It isn't too late. You can still give in, get a trial." Granger tries. The Dark Lord curls his lip.

"A trial and a ticket to Azkaban. Too late, Granger. Too many years and too many deaths!"

He isn't entirely coherent, but he doesn't care. He notices that all three wear wedding rings, and it fires some hatred within.

"Deaths you caused!" shouts Weasley. He hates the Dark Lord, but is too clever to attack now. Too smart. The strategist. A greater threat than the other two, in some ways. The Dark Lord doesn't deny it. It isn't in his nature to lie.

"Perhaps." He says, very softly. The whispers are louder, calling to him. Seductive. Enticing. Not much longer now.

"You're all so righteous. Not without reason. But you think it matters? You think I care? No. Too late. Selfishness, for once." He says, realising that he's starting to slip. It's getting harder and harder to maintain his fragile grip on sanity. The price of Dark Magic.

"Righteousness isn't a part of it. We did what we had to to help people. The law can't be set aside when you feel like it!" Granger growls. The old argument. He's never paid it any heed. Even at the start he didn't, even before the murders and the destruction and the desecration and the attempts at genocide. Too far gone, and he knows it. But some part of him wonders what happened to the girl he used to know. Or perhaps he is the one who has changed.

"You kept pushing. Pushing. Pushing. And it always worked. So when it didn't…equal and opposite. The harder you pushed, the harder I pushed back." He says. He can see that they don't agree. They're probably right, but what does that matter? He's a Dark Lord. The moral high ground is long since lost to him, and he knows that his time is looming near. Best to provoke them. Finish what he came here to do, and Longbottom is the easiest target.

"Neville. Hero. How's your wife?" he asks, his face twisting into a malicious grin. Neville pales slightly with anger, so he keeps speaking.

"Has she recovered yet? I always wondered what that spell would do…tell me, is she still in hospital and thinking insects are eating her bones?"

Neville clenches his jaw, and the Dark Lord is vaguely surprised at the _rage _that shows there. They've all changed.

"And Hermione. Your parents…did they ever recover from that unfortunate house-fire?"

Granger narrows her eyes, and he knows that it won't be much longer. He looks at Weasley, and there's a wealth of understanding in the eyes of the redhead.

_He knows,_ thinks the Dark Lord, and it sends a rush of affection through him. Weasley glances at his companions, and the Dark Lord gives him a wry grin. Weasley is a better strategist than he is, a better tactician, but some tactics cannot fail. Especially not this one, because rage has won out and Hermione and Neville are raising their wands. Two screamed spells, to break his shield, and he lets the spell drop. Neville's spell clips his left arm, punching through in a spray of blood, but Hermione's aim is true. Ribs crack and break, but the pain is consumed by the icy cold embrace of the Veil of Death.

The Dark Lord lands hard on stony ground, the impact exacerbating the pain of his broken ribs. He suppresses a scream into a grating hiss, rolling over carefully. This is…unexpected.

"When have you ever known anything else happen to you?" asks a voice from behind him. He whirls, but his wand hand is caught in a cool, firm grip. Even if it hadn't been he was unarmed, he realised. The pale woman opposite smirks and pushes him away, leaving him to fall again.

"I'm almost disappointed, you know. You had so much potential, Harry."

He bares his teeth against the pain and the gentle taunting.

"Damn you."

"I rather think that's my job, dear. Though I am glad to have my Hallows back."

He realises that his Cloak and Stone are gone. He doesn't care about the wand, but something deep inside him breaks at the amusement Death shows.

"Damn you! Everything…even my death, you'll steal from me!"

His rage is diluted by the stinging in his eyes, and his voice has a broken note to it that he knows Death must notice. She cocks her head, studying him silently as he glares at her through bloodshot eyes, the red tracings of blood vessels making the vivid green more startling than ever.

"How pathetic." She says, her voice cold. He tries to stand but his legs give way and he slumps to his knees, left arm hanging limply, and bows his head. Death tuts at him.

"Where's that defiance, boy? Where is the courage and the rage that fired you?"

He looks up, uncaring of the way tears trace down his face.

"I have nothing left! You took it all from me!"

Death laughs, disquietingly gently.

"Ah, foolish boy…you should not have gathered my Hallows, then. All of them together…_this _is the price. Never being able to die…"

A cool finger traces the jagged scar that cuts from his hairline, past the corner of his left eye and halfway down his cheek.

"Did it hurt? Waking up with this mark, and her dead body next to you."

"You know it did!" he bellows, rage and hate thickening his voice. Death sighs.

"Of course I do. This is the price of immortality, Harry. Life whether you want it or not. I admit, you have been valiant in your pursuit, but it will not work."

He looks at her, knowing that his image is that of a broken man. She hums to herself.

"But what if I gave you a way to pass on? To gain access to that great…Beyond…that you so crave?"

His voice sharpens with hope and suspicion.

"You could do that? What's the catch?" he says, his mind starting to clear. The way Death smiles sends a chill through him, it is so triumphant. So knowing. Her hand comes down and gently traces his left shoulder, icy tendrils burrowing into his flesh. He bites his lip to contain his pained hiss.

"Well, Harry, it's rather easy. You see…I am Death. I cannot be denied. And yet, many still try. Most fail. But some do not. And two in particular are…succeeding."

He loses the battle to contain his gasp of pain as her fingers tighten, and he _feels _his bone starting to crack under the power She wields.

"Frankly, I try to be neutral. I do not meddle like Fortune. I do not guide like Destiny. But I _will not be denied. _No matter that they are in another world, they must fall. And if the chosen hero of that world is incapable, then…I will send another. The Light in that world is so very…naïve. They think they can drag a hero from another world to aid them."

She pauses, and he begins to realise what she means, dimly, through the pain. It is taking most of his will to refrain from screaming, however, so he says nothing. Death continues, softly.

"They cannot, of course. The walls between worlds are too strong to be broken by mere mortals. But I…I am beyond that. I am able to breach those barriers…should I so choose."

He clenches his jaw as the cracking spreads through his body, accompanied by a tingling, freezing feeling, like frozen fire wrapping around his bones. It is excruciating, but he holds his concentration on her, pain not enough to overpower his survival instinct.

"And so I'm offering a bargain. You will go to this world. You will find the means of soul anchorage that these would-be immortals are using, and destroy them. And then, when you die, I will remove this curse from you."

He clenches his hands, and she snickers softly.

"And if you fail…your reward will be an eternity here with me. After all, I do get so…_lonely."_

The last word is accompanied by a wrench in his bones, and a scream bursts from his mouth.

"Do not fail me, Harry. I'm giving you a gift, and offering one more. Good luck, my dear. Don't make me regret choosing to heed the old saying…'send a thief to catch one'."

A twisting in the world around, and he is flung into a vortex of endless light and dark.

He pitches out onto another cold stone floor, and his bones groan at the force of impact. His mind, briefly regaining full sanity, occupies itself with cursing Death. The bitch could have at least given him a softer landing. At least nothing seemed to be broken, just painful. He cracks open one eye, peering up at his surroundings. He is surrounded by people who look oddly familiar, all looking utterly dumbfounded. At the back of his mind a giggle starts, and he struggles to keep it down. He might need to talk his way out of this, and his ability to be silver tongued happens to be closely linked to his sanity. Sliding back into insanity won't help him now.

"It worked." Seems to be the general whisper, but the first person to address him is an elderly man in gaudy robes. Idly he wonders what to call him. Dumbledore is probably appropriate.

"My boy…can you hear me?"

He slowly sits up, guessing that his face is more or less hidden by the hair that seems to be everywhere. He doesn't remember this. He hasn't worn his hair this long in_ years, _but it doesn't matter.

"I hear you."

"Ah…can I ask your name?"

Something in him giggles again, and he responds automatically.

"Justin."

"Justin?"

The voice sounds a little disbelieving, and he starts to giggle.

"Yeah. Justin Thyme."

The giggling turns into laughing, and he keels over. He doesn't know why he finds it so funny, but that isn't really important at this moment. He can feel the incredulous stares on him. Some small, serious part of his mind yells that he's a Dark Lord, and he's being ridiculous. Most of him is too crazed to care. Eventually he stops laughing and carefully stands up.

"Oh, the looks on your faces." He says. He pushes the hair away from his face, and all hell breaks loose.

"It's Potter!" a voice yells, and before he can blink or reach for his wand he's grabbed by the throat. He goes down with a startled yell, but brings his knee up as he hits the ground. His assailant cries out and he automatically goes for the eyes, kicking the larger man off him when he flinches. A roll to his feet, a quick movement to draw his wand but he is disarmed, the force behind the spell launches him into a wall. His ribs scream in protest, and he muzzily wonders if they're broken. He wonders if Death will be more merciful if he dies from a punctured lung shortly after arrival. Probably not. Bitch. He's not much of an unarmed fighter- he's a wizard, after all- but he has a basic knowledge of brawling from his younger days, apparently better than his opponent. A grab at his wand and a punch and he's the only one standing. Glass jaw. Unfortunate for him.

"_Stupefy!"_

_"Expelliarmus!"_

_"Incarcerous!"_

The three screamed spells barely register, and he hastily casts his own.

"_Protego!"_

His shield holds against the first two spells, but the ropes of _Incarcerous _slip around and wind around his ankle. He snarls, whipping his wand up and pointing it towards his attacker, and everything freezes, because not everyone is pointing a wand at _him. _It's a Mexican standoff, and he's truly surprised by it. Then again, he supposes that Death wouldn't have made it easy for him anyway. But…

"Harry?" says a man looking very much like Draco Malfoy, and there is far too much hope in the voice for his liking. A Ron Weasley points his wand unwavering at his heart, and is in turn menaced by a Hermione Granger, who has much the same expression of longing and delight that Malfoy is wearing. Harry stares silently, holding his wand to cover as many of them as he can, and is pleasantly surprised to find his thoughts crisp and clear. Apparently Death has fixed the little…issues…he was suffering from overuse of Dark Magic. At least, he is no longer sunken in the mire of madness.

"Well, isn't this interesting." He says. "Four of us, and I'd say only one was expected."

"Shut your mouth, traitor!" snarls Weasley, and Harry is intrigued to note that Malfoy and Granger seem to take offence at it, while the members of the Order of the Phoenix present- at least, those who have regained their wits- seem to agree. Evidently the Harry Potter of this world was not on the side of good.

"Traitor?" he says, only half muffling his laugh. "Well, perhaps. But I've not betrayed you yet, have I?"

* * *

** I seem to recall that this Voldemort would have a twin sister, but whether she would be good or evil I can't recall since I didn't take any notes. Also I've no idea why the switch to present tense partway through: if I ever took up writing this I would change it to past tense as I normally write. But we've got insane Harry, Chosen One Draco and good-guy Ron and Hermione. Pretty much a mess. **


	3. A Dance of Bone

**Worm/OC. Abandoned when I realised that I had no plan for it and the OC characters were insufferably powerful**

* * *

**A Dance of Bones**

"Give up, Sable! You've already lost!"

The broadsword screamed as it swept towards her, and she barely avoided it. The man wielding the blade pivoted smoothly on his heel, his following stroke almost taking her arm off, and she panicked. She knew Sternsman: he was nothing if not committed and dangerous. That was why he was regarded as a peer by men and women with powers far outstripping his own. The ability to cut almost anything. Basic, low, melee range. And yet, he stood shoulder to shoulder with a woman who could fly, take unholy amounts of punishment and control the weather. Then again, Valiance and Sternsman were siblings. It was sort of expected. A tremendous crash heralded the appearance of one of her creations, a hulking humanoid form that smashed into Sternsman's armoured frame and carried him through a wall. Sable wasn't stupid enough to think he was down. Although he rarely revealed it, Sternsman was legitimately superhuman in terms of toughness, with an increased healing rate and the ability to increase it even further. In fact, Sable suspected that his powers were nothing like he said, and he had far more than anybody knew. It would explain his ability to survive, at any rate. At least he suffered for his rapid healing afterwards, but in the heat of the moment he was nigh impossible to put down. Sable ran.

She was, herself, far more than human. Her own power, twisting her body into something that gave her a little defence. Faster. Stronger. Tougher. A pity that everybody else was so much better. Sable slid around a corner, ran down brushed steel corridors, away from the howling and crashing that signified the attempts of her creations to hold back the Saviours. Trying, and probably failing. The Saviours were the best super team in the world. Valiance. Sternsman. Maelstrom. Shrike. Argent. All of them more than capable of taking her down. Her powers were immense, yes, but not suited to single combat. For that she needed help. Her finest creations waited in her lab, just ahead, and she crashed through the door to find them still there. Still waiting. Reborn Ein to Zwolf. God she hoped they could save her. Or at least, hold the Saviours off while she escaped. She had a back-up plan, but it was-

"So, this is what you've become."

The voice sent a chill through her spine, and she turned on her heel slowly. Argent and Shrike had entered the room already, and Sable suspected that she could see Maelstrom just behind. He would be reluctant to act against her, she knew. He was a psychic of unsurpassed power; he would know why she left the Saviours. Why she did what she had done. Besides, Maelstrom didn't like fighting- he preferred to put his enemies to sleep with his powers, but she was long immune, and so were her creations. His mental powers didn't work on the dead. If he got involved he was still the biggest threat, well able to fling anything about when using his powers to physically affect the world, but Argent and Shrike were the more immediate threat.

"You should just give in, Sable. You'll get a fair trial, maybe the courts will be lenient." Argent told her. His voice was warmer than Shrike, much warmer, but it still had a hard edge to it. Argent was a teleporter, technically. Technically. Really, Sable suspected that it was something different, probably something in the class of reality warping, because Argent's power was insane. All he needed was a touch. Sometimes not even that, and he didn't need to be able to see of even visualise the destination. Sable had once seen Argent flick his hand at a massive, bioengineered monster menacing a city, and a silver oval had swallowed it in an instant. A short while later the beast had been confirmed to have been transported to _Jupiter. _The only consolation was that Argent would have to get to touching range for her, unless he wanted to teleport half a country. Large scale was much easier for him. Shrike was the most frightening of the group currently present, in her opinion. Shrike was, like her, not entirely human. He was, in fact, more akin to the Terminator. The bad guy from the second film, in fact, composed of living metal…and with the ability to convert metal into himself from a touch. Add onto that a ruthless streak and a fanatical adherence to the law, and you had a very effective, very terrifying enforcer. He was only with the Saviours because they could reliably control him- considering that all but Sternsman were rated as at least continental threats should they go rogue, the belief in their ability was not exactly misplaced.

"You should not give her false hope, Argent. She is a traitor and a murderer and will be treated as such." Shrike declared, his cold tone austere and disapproving. Sable felt a violent urge to kill him. Well, in for a penny…

"If the charges are set, I may as well add more!" she snarled. "Reborn, destroy them! Ein, Zwolf, with me!"

She vaguely saw a look of approval cross Argent's expression before the Reborn rushed past her with rasping, snarling warcries. Shrike let out a grating growl and the metal floor spiked suddenly, ripping through two Reborn before Ein cleaved through the spikes with a bony blade that had sprouted from his arm.

"Warscythe. I thought I recognised those Reborn. So, you thought that the Armoury would make good puppets, Sable? How far you have fallen." Said Sternsman, walking through the lab doors rather than using the gaping hole that Shrike, Argent and Maelstrom had torn. It must have been Shrike: she had barely noticed its presence. Absorbing the metal to create the hole would have been child's play for him.

"They deserved everything they got! Do you know how many people they had killed? How many more would have died when Falchion finished his newest invention?" Sable screamed. Sternsman frowned. His helmet had been knocked off and his short beard and hair were spattered with blood, crimson on black and white, but he seemed unharmed.

"Not nearly as many as could die to you." He replied quietly, and Sable felt a coldness settle in her heart, hatred and sorrow intermingled.

"That's it? That's why? You'll kill me because I _might _be a threat?" she rasped out. Her Reborn had halted, formed into a line between her and the Saviours. Sternsman looked honestly sorry, but he was a good man. A hero. He would do whatever was needed to save the world, even should it cost him his soul. And Sable knew she deserved the treatment. She probably deserved the distrust, for all she had done, but it still hurt. Well, so be it.

"Reborn! Kill them." She ordered flatly, leaning into Zwolf and pressing her right hand against Ein. A flicker of her mind gave an order, and the familiar dragging sensation of Zwolf teleporting overtook her. He had once been Flagellant, of the Armoury, and although he could only transfer himself to something he could see his power was invaluable to her. He only took her to the other end of the lab, but that was all she needed. The inner laboratory would be far harder to break into. Sable hastily typed in the passcode to the inner laboratory, and thrust her hand against the combined DNA scanner/fingerprint reader, waiting impatiently for the door to unlock and slide open far enough to let her through. As she had expected, her Reborn were being annihilated by the Saviours. Really, although the Armoury had been a large and strong enough group to take over the small country they ruled, they weren't individually powerful enough to take on her old allies. Warscythe was _maybe _strong enough to take on Sternsman or Shrike, but he was protecting her. Zwolf- Flagellant- was no match for Argent, even if he wasn't protecting her. Albrecht and Sigvald, the Armoury Elementals, had no way of actually harming Maelstrom, their streams of fire and electricity being easily turned aside by a psychic shield. Turncoat and his clones were proving utterly ineffectual against Sternsman, who could quite clearly tell which of them were real, and Shrike was decimating Rapier and Claymore in hand to hand combat. As it turned out, being able to turn into rock was outclassed by metal, and the advanced healing Claymore possessed wasn't enough because he _couldn't actually hurt Shrike. _Three of the other Reborn were simply her Juggernaut creations, and Argent was practically toying with them. That left only Falchion- whose greatest asset was his mind, making him rather less useful when used as a reanimated puppet- and Halberd, who was moving his head as though to track something through the walls. Probably Valiance.

"Inner Lab, opening." Drawled a voice behind her, and Sable cursed Falchion. The man was the most goddamn cliché supervillain in existence, and the voice had drawn the attention of all the Saviours present. Maelstrom slowly closed his outstretched hand, and the Armoury Elementals and two of the Juggernauts twisted into shreds of meat and pulpy flesh. Evidently he wasn't squeamish about killing things that were already dead. Argent turned, his fingers tapping Reborn within reach, and the last Juggernaut and Rapier vanished in a blink of silver portals. Zwolf, flickering forward, managed to save Falchion, but Sternsman cleaved Turncoat in two and Shrike obliterated Claymore with a storm of metal fragments that whipped from the ground below him. Sable doubted even Claymore could regenerate from that, and even if he could it wouldn't be fast enough.

"Enough playing, Sable. Whatever you're trying to do stops here." Sternsman said, pointing his broadsword at her. The blade still gleamed, untarnished by dirt or blood, and it made him look more threatening that any amount of gore would have. The last of her Reborn not clustered around her, Halberd, dropped into a fighting stance. The Reborn wielded the weapon that was his namesake, the edge lit with a slight glow, and wore powered armour. Both weapon and armour were designed and built by Falchion and, in theory, would allow Halberd to hold his own, utilising the more than human speed and reflexes his power granted him. A lot like Sternsman, in fact: Halberd had relatively weak powers but the ability and determination to make them work. Assuming that Sternsman was honest about his powers and not a full blown reality warper like practically every other member of the Saviours. Still, it didn't compensate for Maelstrom or Valiance, wherever she was-

"Sable!"

The shout was accompanied by a terrible crash as Valiance smashed through the ceiling, coming to a hovering halt mere inches from the ground. Thunder boomed, and rain poured in from the breach Valiance had made, all due to her power. Sable automatically flinched away. Valiance was practically the definition of shock and awe, and very few people were immune.

"Valiance." She replied softly. Valiance looked at her, the lines of her jaw softening under her visored helmet.

"I…Sable, don't do this. Give in. Don't make me do this." She said quietly. Sable shook her head.

"I can't. You know that. It's already over. Besides, I'd rather it be this way than rotting in some prison or lab."

"Lab? Sable, I-"

Sable cut Valiance off with a raised hand, pushing her hood away from her face. She saw Valiance flinch slightly, and knew it was because of the lines of scars and stitching.

"What happened to you?" Valiance asked quietly. Sable smiled bitterly, feeling her desiccated skin crack slightly.

"My powers only work on the dead. Didn't you ever consider the reason why I could affect myself?"

A look of horror crossed the exposed portion of Valiance's face, and Sable saw Sternsman and Argent flinch slightly. Shrike didn't blink, the unfeeling bastard. Sable shrugged.

"Doesn't matter. I'm not going to be taken prisoner, not even by the Saviours." She said, stepping back into the inner lab and slapping a button to turn on the lights. A mental command sent Reborn Acht- Falchion- across to the massive machine in the centre of the lab, while Ein, Zwolf and Drei- Halberd- closed around her.

* * *

**Basics- Sable is basically Panacea, except her powers only work on the dead and got a bit crossed with Bonesaws. That's it, really.**


	4. Un-Named Mass Effect

**This one has been added in just because it was there, but this is the last for this little and somewhat low quality collection.**

* * *

"I still can't believe that we have to consider these bastards our allies."

"Language, Commander. The UDSH is a valuable force for good and…I don't think I can finish that sentence."

Field Commander Shepard snorted in sardonic agreement as he looked down upon the massive phalanx of soldiers marching in step down the wide street.

"You know what it reminds me of, Annette? Those Old Earth films of World War 2. Soldiers goose-stepping past a review stand under the approving gaze of _Herr Fuhrer."_

"I'm not sure that's an accurate representation, sir. The UDSH aren't Nazi's. They're…well, they aren't Nazis."

"Your rebuke is noted, Paladin Ghorst, and I'll accept that they aren't Nazis. But they sure as Hell ain't normal. I mean, sure it's a bit odd that all those mutations started springing up and such, but they're going a bit far with the whole 'Human Purity' thing."

"Preaching to the converted, Commander. Pretty sure that if we weren't one of the biggest kids on the block they'd be purging us the first chance they got."

Shepard laughed mirthlessly.

"Yeah. 'Purity is the soul of victory', right? Bit more extravagant than our own little motto. Still can't believe that they actually decided to help us."

"In all fairness, sir, they were getting beaten pretty hard by the Dominion. They've only really gotten back in the game after they got access to our factory worlds."

"Yeah, I guess. But that still doesn't mean I don't wanna smack Aldrich in the mouth every time I see him look at me. Sneering. Like he's better than me, just 'cause he doesn't have _impurities."_

"Sir…no offense intended, sir, but your impurities are rather…well…"

"Yeah, I know."

Shepard did know. He was of the Fallen, as the more religious members of society called it, his very being tainted. Magic, demonic powers, whatever you wanted to call it: it was an unnatural force, and it was horrifyingly obvious to anyone with even a hint of ability to see. He'd never gotten a coherent response out of anyone who had seen him exercising his full power: all he knew was that he no longer looked human when he did so. Even now, with his power entirely suppressed and hidden, there was something distinctly eldritch about him to the eyes of the gifted. It was a sign of long friendship that Ghorst didn't react to it at all.

A vaguely human form, but with too long arms and long fingered hands. Legs reverse jointed, and a head that was just a shadowy silhouette, split by a gaping, toothy maw and topped with a jagged crown of starlight. That was the shape he gradually assumed upon tapping into the forces that could twist reality, and it tended to send even the most hardened Mages into a screaming panic. There was something _wrong _about the Tainted, something worse than the normal bizarreness of magic, and it was something that Shepard preferred not to consider- especially given the law-required explosive chip in his head, set to go off if he ever yielded to the intoxication that his power brought when overused. He shook his head and turned away from the massed ranks of UDSH Heavy Infantry, walking to the adjoining room where a portion of his own command staff were located.

"Sir?"

"Any new reports, Major?"

"No, sir. The Dominion leadership appears to have gone to ground in the bunker and tunnel system, and left the civilians to our mercy. Our troops are establishing strongpoints and working on a basic census: I believe that the UDSH is doing the same. No plans to draw out the Dominion as of yet- I believe that a long siege may be needed."

"The UDSH doesn't have a way?"

"I think they may have suggested the use of a Sunreaver platoon to Paladin Gremore, sir, but I doubt he would entertain such a thought."

Shepard grunted in agreement and nodded. James Gremore was the most senior member of Shepard's force, apart from Ghorst and Shepard himself. The grizzled campaigner was nearly twice as old as the other two commanders, and would never agree to send valuable mages into what would quite likely be a heavily guarded death-trap.

"Where is the First Paladin now?"

"He went to oversee the repair and reinforcement of the Nellbar strongpoint, sir."

"Good. Good. Very well, Thomas, carry on."

The Major saluted and returned to work, and Shepard walked across the room, Ghorst in tow. Nellbar was only a short distance away.

"James."

"Shepard. Come to check on me?"

"Heh. Am I that obvious?"

"I wouldn't like to say, sir." Gremore replied. The bulky, grey haired Paladin glanced up at the skies thoughtfully.

"You know that the UDSH commander suggested we bombard the tunnel network? How did he put it…'The flagship can penetrate the crust, dear fellow, and solve our issues easily'. Prick."

Shepard considered.

"He isn't wrong, I suppose. The _Indifference of Spite _is a planet-buster, right enough."

"Which would be wonderful if we weren't on the planet. And if we didn't care about collateral. And if-"

"Yeah, I get it James. Do you have a plan? You usually do."

"Hmph. The major tunnels were collapsed behind them, can't get anything bigger than a Stalwart-class down there. My intention was to wait until the _Spirit _can supply us some of the mark seven Peacekeeper suits, they should be easy enough to alter for close quarters tunnel combat. We clear out as much as we can, make sure the Dominion can't trigger any last-minute nastiness, and then we'll siege them out." Gremore said, outlining a plan. Shepard nodded.


	5. Stars and Shadows

The afterlife, Revan hazily concluded, was not all it was cracked up to be.

For one, it was cold. Deathly cold and dark, down here in the very depths. Revan lay slumped against a wall, head sunken upon his chest. His armour and his robes, tattered and battered though they were, should have offered him protection and yet…and yet, the chill sank into his flesh and his bones, leaving his blood sluggish and his muscles weak. He slowly opened an eye, seeing once again his chest, crimson and silver armour paled, translucent. He could see the stone through his chest, he dimly comprehended. The thought should have brought him to his feet, curious and afraid, but it was insufficient to break through the blanket of exhaustion that weighed upon his shoulders, thick and smothering and far, far too heavy to shift.

It was so dark. So cold.

Revan drifted through a mindless haze, his mind washed with the briefest flickers of memory and thought. He couldn't say how long it took him gather the strength to drag himself back to coherency. A day. A month. A year. A century. What did it really matter.

He thought about stirring, but even the briefest consideration brought the leaden weight upon every limb to the forefront of his mind, too weighty to move. No, he was comfortable here.

That was a lie, but one he couldn't yet shift. It took all of his feeble strength to focus his mind. He was beneath some building, he thought, the whisper of life filtering down to this place, this darkness. A temple, he thought, a Jedi temple. Or whatever had replaced the Jedi. He could taste the texture of the Force above, the flavour and the warmth. But down here, there was only darkness. Only cold.

The fading echoes of Sith filled this place, echoes of Lords and Warriors and Acolytes long fallen, conglomerating together. A meaningless babble, a collective of those who prided themselves of individuality, the scraps that had survived them huddling in the dark and twisting together into a mockery of the Sith Ghosts on Korriban and a dozen other planets, mere memories of battles won and battles lost. They- it- ruled down here, or so it liked to think.

Even as exhausted as he was, the thing in the dark did not approach Revan. Not while he struggled through the waves of tiredness long enough to touch this parody of thought. Not even while he slumbered, hauled into the mire that devoured his strength. Revan appreciated that, even as he felt his mind sinking again.

Even in this parlous state, the name of Revan was feared.

He slept, the dreams coming in wisps, fog from an uncertain mire, sand drifting from a forgotten desert. He awoke to the cold and the darkness and the exhaustion, unable to rise, fading soon again. Sometimes the temple above tasted of fear and pain. More often it was serene, calm. The ghost-thing became stronger, but it still feared him and those who were reckless enough to venture into these ancient tunnels were strong, disciplined. They never came to Revan. He never went to them. He wasn't sure they could see him and, even if they could, they would probably presume him a Sith. His memories were hazy at best, but he was fairly sure that the galaxy remembered Darth Revan better than Revan, the Prodigal Knight.

Besides, he was tired. So tired. Perhaps when he was rested. Just a little rest more, surely that would bring him back. Just a little rest more, and he would see the light and the warmth once again.

Revan slumbered.

He awoke again, a flicker of something testing him, reminding him. He was tired- so very tired, tired so much that he could barely breath and yet…and yet, there was something there. Something lightening his limbs, something calling out to him. Revan took a breath, unsure if he needed it but the habit strong. Revan took a breath and listened.

The tunnels were dark, cold, empty. The ghost-thing was still there, its gelatinously amorphous form roiling and twisting below him, in the deeper tunnels. Revan wondered how it held itself together instead of shredding, the uncertain mind of it unable to hold a form. The Dark Side, he presumed. Generally that could be relied upon to provide the answer when anything particularly frakked up occurred. Revan fought the tiredness enough to force himself to his feet, pointedly ignoring the way his tattered robe shifted through the wall and…wait.

Revan paused, one hand touching the wall and feeling the smoothness through his gauntlet. He could stand. He could think. He was tired still, so tired, sluggish from the cold but it was receding, ever so slightly. A smile cracked his lips for a moment before he realised that the Sith thing was moving, a slithering, gulping motion. Revan searched for its target and found it, there, in the tunnels. A touch in the Force, bright and shining amongst the dark and young, so very young. So very vulnerable. Revan began to move, every muscle creaking and groaning, numbness taxing him but inferior to his determination. For the first time in longer than he could remember the tiredness that dragged at his heels seemed meaningless, washed away by the memory of urgency, the flickering ghost of anger. His legs were stiff, his gait jagged and limping but Revan felt a touch of warmth, an ember of the man he used to be kindling in his chest. It kept him moving. Kept him going as he tried to outpace the monstrosity below, dragging itself in pursuit of the flickering candle-light that wandered through the catacombs, fear colouring its presence. It was below him, too close to the Sith and Revan found himself stuck, lost, lurching unevenly through the tunnels as he tried to cudgel his brain into compliance.

He tasted the horror and the terror in the musty air as the Sith thing found the wanderer. The ember in his chest struggled, but Revan was awake now, refusing to let it die. Refusing to let it go, fighting onwards. Tiredness slowed him, but determination kept him moving. Cold sapped him, but anger gave him warmth. The darkness blinded him, but the Force gave him eyes. He wobbled through a doorway, limbs stiffening and limbering in odd ways as he moved, his right leg dragging a fraction and not cooperating but Revan merely cursed it and struggled on, feeling the warm, flickering light flee from the monster in the dark, brightness dimmed by terror and seeping tendrils of darkness. He hobbled after it, cursing his leg and his exhaustion and his own stupid weakness in not forcing himself up earlier, in not hunting down the thing first. A hand slapped at his belt.

There was no lightsabre there, no comforting weight.

It didn't matter.

_**I really thought about trying to turn this one into a full story, but then I realised that I don't really know enough about the Star Wars universe and I couldn't be bothered to do all the research, so I decided to just pop it in here with the rest. It might get some more work done, it might not, no promises. But I think it does have potential, at least.**_

* * *

The light had halted, brought to bay by the slithering creature in pursuit. Revan could feel it now, the clamour within it, a whispering conclave of rage and hate and hunger and amusement and satisfaction, satisfaction, satisfaction. He sped up, his right knee finally bending, his own body reluctantly ceding control and he saw, through the darkness, the doorway beyond which the horror and its victim lurked. Revan crashed through the doorway without halting, finally running, the hammer of blood familiar in his chest and his throat and he jumped without even thinking. The creature was before him, a shambling, hunched wreck of a thing. A dark cloak covered it, a dozen masks clinging grotesquely to a misshapen skull, arms too long and with too many joints reaching out to a cowering figure. Revan flung himself into a leap, both boots leaving the floor and smashing into the creature with all the strength he could muster.

He surprised himself with the force of the impact. If the shrieking screech that followed was any indication, he surprised the creature too.

It reeled back, cramming itself into a wall as Revan rebounded off it, landing on his feet, the rush of battle dispelling any hesitation and he grinned wildly, moving in. The creature did not stay to contest him, however. It turned to him, wailing in a hundred different voices and cursing in a hundred different tongues, masks twisting and scraping in a mockery of life, grating together in discordant chorus that contrasted horribly with the gurgling, whispering tones it called in. One of the masks gaped wider, mouth opening before the darkness thickened, grew deeper and even as Revan lunged forwards with fingers grasping it was gone, leaving only a trace of fear and dread and a rapidly fading miasma.

"That's right, frakking run!" Revan shouted after it, completely ignoring the sensible voice in his mind that told him that attempting to fight the horror might have been unwise. That voice was an idiot. He was _Revan. _Of course he could defeat some hell-spawned monstrosity when he could barely find the energy to raise his head a few minutes ago.

That voice may have had a point, especially as the rush wore off and Revan suddenly became aware of the pains in his joints and the tiredness that clung to his bones like moss on a neglected statue. Still, he pushed it aside long enough to turn, slowly ducking to one knee and observing the target of the Sith-ghost. It was a child, he thought, the surprise distant and muffled. The kid was huddled in a corner of the room, arms raised protectively over his head and knees drawn up. His thin frame was shaking with fear, locks of red-brown hair showing beneath his raised arms, muffled sobs wracking his frame. Revan grimaced. Traumatised children were not his forte. Still…

"Hey." Revan said, reaching out a hand and stopping several inches away. What was it Mission had told him, once upon a lifetime ago? Ill advised to touch a panicking person unless you knew them? Well, Revan didn't want to startle the kid into running again. He felt like an old man, and that fething ghost-thing…Revan wasn't going to call it that anymore. That fething amalgamation, he decided, was still out there.

"Hey. Kid. Can you hear me?" Revan called, careful to keep his voice low and reassuring. It sounded rough in his ears, velvet smoothness scraped away by years of disuse, but it was the best he could go. The next words caught in his throat and pulled a cough from him, but when he spoke again his voice was less gravel and more sand. A decent start, he reluctantly conceded.

"Can you hear me? Kid?"

It would be just typical if the kid had been too traumatised to recover…or if the amalgamation had gotten him worse than Revan had thought. But the sobs seemed to be slowing, so maybe it was alright. Revan waited patiently. His tiredness still weighed on him, but his mind seemed clearer and the chill in his limbs less biting now. He could afford to wait, even as the shaking turned to trembling and the sobs slowly receded into sniffles. He could try and meditate, he supposed, but he had spent frakking ages sleeping. He felt like being awake. Very slowly the kid drew his arms away from his head, tousled hair moving away from blue eyes with painful slowness. Revan gave him a slow, gentle smile, carefully keeping a distance.

"Hey, kid. You with me again?"

The kid sniffled and blinked at him. He was maybe nine, Revan estimated, too young to be down here alone. He must have gotten lost.

"Wh- who are you?" the kid asked. Revan kept his gentle smile in place.

"My name's Revan, kid. What's yours?"

"I…um, m'name's Obi-Wan."

"Obi-Wan. Ok, Obi-Wan, are you hurt?" Revan asked. Obi-Wan was still sniffling, but he seemed to be pulling himself together.

"No, Master. I just- it was so cold, and I was lost."

"That happens." Revan softly told him, inching forwards. A gauntleted hand carefully reached out, as though to ruffle the kids' hair.

The digits passed clean through, the hair moving just a flicker, as though a gentle breeze had disturbed the locks. Revan blinked. Obi-Wan looked even more confused.

"Master?"

"Revan, kid. Just Revan."

Looks like he might be some kind of ghost of something. Revan didn't think he was actually a ghost, he was in full technicolour rather than monotone blue or red, but he wasn't substantial.

That really frakking sucked, to be honest. But he had a child to rescue.

"Ok, Obi-Wan. You've been really brave so far, kid, but I need you to keep being brave. Alright?"

"All-alright."

"Ok. Can you stand up?"

A quick shake of the head was his reply, so Revan simply settled himself on the ground. There was a vague sense of cold on his knees, but that was it. Maybe being a ghost had its moments.

"That's alright, Obi-Wan. We'll stay here until you can." He told the boy, keeping his voice soothing. A moment of concentration allowed him to taste the timbre of the air, testing it for the amalgamation but it was distant, fleeing and warbling in pain and fear. The child would be safe here.

"Master Revan…" the boy whispered, soft as a shadow in the night, "Why are you here?"

"Just Revan, Obi-Wan. Just Revan." Revan reminded him quietly. He offered the boy a small smile.

"And to answer, I don't know why I'm here. Just that I am."

Probably the 'Will Of The Force' -patent pending-, he mused. Selfish thing that it was, too cryptic for anyone's good. But that wasn't much use to tell a child. Instead Revan returned the question.

"Why are you here, Obi-Wan? I don't think this is a place that sees many younglings."

"'m an Initiate." The kid grumbled. Revan grinned at that- obviously the kid still had spirit.

"Alright then. Why are you here, Obi-Wan? I don't think this is a place that sees many Initiates."

Obi-Wan looked up, looking surprised at the teasing tone. A tiny, watery smile crossed the portion of his face that Revan could see.

"Got into a fight with Bruck." Obi-Wan grumbled. Revan stroked his goatee thoughtfully, affecting a grave expression.

"Bruck?"

"Bruck Chun."

The watery smile had been replaced with a scowl. Revan waited patiently.

"He's always mean t'me. Says I'm stupid. He knocked me over so I hit him but then his friends ran after me so I ran away. I'm always the one who gets in trouble though." Obi-Wan explained in a sudden rush. Revan continued to stroke at his chin. It made him look wise.

Meetra didn't know what she was talking about when she said it made him look like a lost tourist.

"Another Initiate?"

"Mm-hm." Obi-Wan said. He peeked up at Revan, eyes wide and blue beneath his lashes.

"You're not gonna tell me I should be calmer?"

Revan blinked at him.

"No. If someone pushed me over I'd hit them." He told the kid, grinning at the baffled goggling he received in return. He shrugged.

"You can't be a pushover if you want to be a Jedi, kid. Didn't your Crechemaster say anything?"

Obi-Wan redeveloped the ferocious scowl. It was pretty adorable, to be honest.

"They don't believe me." He muttered. Revan frowned. That sounded like bullying to him, although he couldn't say he had a great deal of experience in that regard. He had been mostly ambivalent towards his agemates during his own training- except Alek, of course- but the one time he had had trouble…well, luring the annoying Corellian into an out of the way corridor and providing a solid, instructional beating had solved that problem.

Really, it was a wonder that none of the Jedi had considered his proclivity towards violence an issue. He should probably take that as a compliment to his acting skills. But that advice wouldn't help the child before him. Revan had been older, more controlled. He had not given in to his anger, he had _allowed_ it to run free, maybe not healthily, but he had been in control. There was no guarantee that Obi-Wan could do the same.

Besides, revenge was not the Jedi Way. Allegedly. Revan was fairly sure that there had been more than a little touch of vengeance in the Council brainwashing him and sending him after his friend- his Apprentice. But that was the sort of thing to agonise over on sleepless nights, a suspicion that would never be shared and never forgotten. But if he was to help the young man before him he would have to tread carefully. Children could be so very touchy. Even more so than Sith Lords, and the Sith were some of the most thin-skinned beings Revan had ever encountered.

"Being angry at your bully is what he wants, kid. Have you tried letting your anger out in a different way? I always liked breaking things. Maybe your Crechemaster could help you with that."

Obi-Wan stood, slowly and a little wobbly. Revan watched him with concern but said nothing. The kid looked confused.

"I- that's not the Jedi Way, Master."

Revan could hear the capitals. But still, not the Jedi way? As far as Revan was concerned, expressing anger in a healthy manner was the best way to be rid of it. There is emotion, yet there is the Force, after all.

"Not the Jedi way?" he asked. Obi-Wan shook his head.

"There is no emotion, there is peace." He said, the words dead and rote. Revan tilted his head.

"The Jedi Code? That's not how I remember it." He muttered. He stood, grimacing as his knee twinged irritably.

"Can you tell me the Jedi Code, Obi-Wan?" he asked. The child blinked up at him before he nodded tremulously.

"Um, yes, Master. Um…'There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force.'"

Revan frowned as he listened. That wasn't what he-no. Wait. He did remember that, he had heard it once or twice. A newer Code, maybe, one that had become popular after he left? But to be the only Code that was taught, the thing that the Jedi of this time were expected to live by…it was so very naïve.

"Hmm. The Code I remember is a little different, kid. You want to hear it?" Revan asked, assessing the tunnels around him as he spoke. The Force whispered around him, eldritch and fading. He ignored the whispers, instead listening to the way it moved, the way it swirled, using the whorls and eddies of it to find a way out of the tunnels and gently guiding the kid towards the one he thought was right. Obi-Wan nodded at him.

"If you don't mind, Master."

"Call me Revan." Revan muttered, shaking his head.

"The Code I was taught, kid, was this: 'Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force.' Control, but in a different way."

Obi-Wan had a thoughtfully scrunched face and Revan made no further comment on the Code. Honestly he preferred the Sith Code, flawed though it was. The Sith were far too obsessed with power and what they thought of it, but the end of the Sith Code had always resonated with him.

"Still worth asking, kid. You keep trying to bottle it up, someday you aren't going to snap and get rid of the anger. You're going to bury it somewhere deep and dark, and it'll never leave you again."

Obi-Wan shrank at that, and Revan sighed and rested a hand on his shoulder. Ethereal though it was, it seemed to comfort the boy.

"Try, Obi-Wan. The Jedi cannot condemn you for asking. And if they will not lend you aid then…"

Revan hesitated, but really the other half of that was obvious.

"I will always be willing to listen to you."

"Thank you, Mas- Revan." Obi-Wan said quietly. Revan nodded, humming in his throat. They walked in silence after that, making their way through the tunnels. Revan felt his steps lighten a little as they drew closer to the surface, the buzz and hum of life above bringing some life to his own steps, though he refused to leave the shadows of the tunnel when they reached the stairs at the very top of the tunnels. Obi-Wan walked a few steps before he stopped.

"Ma-Revan. You are not coming?"

Revan smiled at him.

"No, Obi-Wan. The Temple is…the Temple is not my home, now. And someone must go after the thing that lurks in the depths."

Obi-Wan blanched and stepped back at that, paling. Revan smiled sadly at that.

"Remember, though, that it was just a ghost. An echo of something that should not be and will not be if I have anything to say about it. Good luck, Obi-Wan. But, before you go, what Temple am I in?"

Obi-Wan had begun to retreat up the stairs, but he paused to answer that question.

"The Coruscant Temple, Revan."

"Coruscant." Revan mused as he watched the boy leave. Coruscant, site of one of the greatest victories won by the Sith Empire of Darth Vitiate, if his murky memory did not fail him. But he was sure it did not. During those awful, dragging years when Revan had been trapped, Vitiate feeding on his power and struggling to break his mind the Emperor had liked to let Revan know all the bad news from the war. He had never seemed to realise that it only made Revan more determined to resist, chip away at Vitiate. But, assuming that was true, Coruscant had seen the deaths of a great many Jedi. A great many Sith. And…Revan couldn't be certain, but he thought that the Jedi Temple here was built on the ruins of a Sith Temple. And given the thing below, that was very interesting indeed.


End file.
